One day Oldest Boy comes running out of Middle Boy's room and yells over the balcony, "Mama, Mary had a CRAMP on Middle Boy's socks!"

"WHAT?!" I said.

"Hurry, Mary CRAMPED!"

This was about 5 years ago when Oldest Boy was 5 years old. Middle Boy was 3 and Mary was still a puppy. I ran upstairs thinking maybe Mary was having a seizure and Oldest Boy didn't have the word for that. She'd never had a seizure before, but I truly couldn't imagine what had happened.

I walked into Middle Boy's room with Oldest Boy right behind me. There sat Mary and Middle Boy, neither alarmed nor stressed and not far from Oldest Boy was a pair of his dirty socks on the floor with a pile of Mary's poop on top of it.

I turned to Oldest Boy and said, "Mary had an accident and pooped. 'Cramp' is not a nice word for poop, please don't say that anymore."

"I didn't know," said Oldest Boy.

I cleaned up the mess and chose not to correct the boys on the proper use of the word "cramp" or "crap".

Part II

Mom and Dad were visiting from Arizona several months later. Dad and Middle Boy were in Middle Boy's room playing with trains and tracks. I thought how nice it was that they were up there so long, Dad laying on his side on the floor, watching Middle Boy push trains around the various tracks they'd made.

Dad finally came downstairs and joined us in the kitchen. He grabbed a handful of nuts and casually says, "Middle BOy really enjoys those trains. He got mad when one of them wouldn't do what he wanted, and he said, 'Oh, CRAAAAMP!'"

So many ideas swirling in my head - what to write about - how much to share about the past and present. I read other blogs, articles in magazines, lots of books and feel stupid for thinking about pushing any words into the public eye, let alone doing it. There are so many talented, pedigreed people with impressive vocabularies, story telling abilities, published "stuff" and awards. Recounting a conversation or event that happened is one skill set - but to develop and tell a story created in one's mind is - I believe - a gift. I don't think I have that gift. I think one of my son's does though. It awakens him in the night - the need to just "get it out" on paper. He's eight.

BUT, I, one of the "regular people" will not be discouraged by these thoughts. I will continue to write and share, things from the past, the present, even a few things made up in my own head. I'll try not to be too self-indulgent, annoying, or narcissistic, recognizing that a little of each of these traits will come through on any blog.

The first time I realized a boss of mine - a smart, educated, wealthy, conventionally successful man - was really one of the "regular people", I felt empowered, but not in an elitist way - in an equalizing way. I spoke with Dad about this. He simply said, "They're all regular people." And we are.

Farewell Dick Martin. He was 86 years old when he died last night. I vividly remember Mom and Dad watching "Laugh-In". I didn't get the jokes, but they laughed and exchanged glances with smiles. I liked the mini-skirts, platform shoes, go-go boots and sassy dancing. Looked like everyone was having so much fun. Goldie Hawn, Lily Tomlin, Ruth Buzzi, Arte Johnson, doors opening and closing, corny jokes that entertained. I feel sad he's passed. I didn't cry though -- like when John Ritter and Steve Irwin left.